The Nymph from Heaven, page 2
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
But Mary’s attention was arrested by the man riding just behind Buckingham. His horse was modestly bedecked in plain cloth of blue chequered with tawny, and he held his helmet under his arm as he cantered just behind Buckingham. His blue eyes matched the sky, and his sandy blonde hair shone as bright as his armor. “Henry,” she said, “Who is that?”
“Our Uncle Courtenay, of course,” Henry replied, not taking his eyes off of Buckingham.
“No, the one just there,” said Mary, nodding her head and trying not to point, lest Grandmother Beaufort’s eagle eye should be upon her.
Henry tore his eyes away from Buckingham’s glorious presentation and then homed back again. “Know you not? He is Charles Brandon, nephew to our Lord Father’s Master of the Horse.”
“Why have I…we…not seen him before?” Mary was willing the young man to look at her with all her concentration, but he rode respectfully behind Buckingham, looking neither to left nor right.
“I know not,” said Henry. “Perhaps because he has had no formal presentation to the court. His father was our Lord Father’s standard bearer, he who was killed by Richard III’s own hand at Bosworth. When Brandon first came to court he was attached to Arthur’s household.”
The trumpets blared and the tourney began. Charge after charge was made, lance after lance was broken, but for once Mary had no interest in the games unless Charles Brandon was taking a turn. If he was attached to Arthur’s household, that explained why she had never seen him before; as Prince of Wales, Arthur had always, at least for as long as Mary could remember, had his own establishment, and it was not always where the court happened to be. The court was like a city within a city, hundreds of people jockeying for position, going hither and thither on their own important business, or the king’s. One could be at court for years and never cross paths with another.
“But why, then, did he not go to Wales with Arthur and Katharine?”
Henry, intent upon the current course being run between Buckingham and Courtenay, took so long to reply that Mary thought he might not have heard her. Just as she was about to repeat her question he said, absently, “I know not.” This was the joust for the championship; Buckingham was unseated and gave way graciously to Courtenay. The crowd roared their approval for both the victor and the vanquished. The crowd waited while the three champions regrouped and made their way to the stands to receive their prizes.
Mary felt a gentle hand upon her arm and looked over at Jane, who was seated on her other side. “He is a commoner,” she said, in a whisper so low that Mary could barely hear her words.
Mary’s temper flared. “I marvel much that you should say that, as you are common, too,” she retorted. How dare Jane say such a thing about…about the man…she loved? Was it possible? Could one love a man one had seen for the first time only that day, and with whom one had never exchanged so much as a glance, a single word? Mary raised her eyes to Jane’s, which, like her own, were a soft dove gray, and felt the sympathy they conveyed.
Jane Poppincourt was Fleming, the orphan of a French prisoner from one of the interminable petty wars between England and France. Mary’s senior by only a year, King Henry had offered her a place at court as Mary’s companion, hoping the girl would, through the painless process of daily conversation, teach Mary to speak French. So far all that had been accomplished was Jane’s near-perfect English, and a deep friendship between them. Mary laid a contrite hand upon Jane’s arm. “You are right,” Mary said. “I am sorry.” Jane’s lips curved in her warm, gentle smile and she turned her attention back to the joust. But Jane’s subtle admonishment was not lost on Mary. If Jane could detect Mary’s feelings for Charles Brandon with only such flimsy, gossamer evidence, then other, sharper eyes could do so. She would have to be careful.
# # #
Early in April, the looked-for, longed-for messenger arrived from Ludlow Castle. But when King Henry met the messenger’s mournful eyes, he knew that the news he carried was not the eagerly awaited announcement that the Princess of Wales was at last with child. The king was distraught and would not be consoled over the untimely death of his first-born son and heir. “Two of my three precious sons are dead,” he moaned. “What have I done to displease God so?” The king and queen mingled their tears.
“You have done nothing to displease God,” Queen Elizabeth said gently. “For a long time, this land was torn by war and misery. You are a good king, my lord, who has healed the country and made it prosperous again. We still have Prince Henry, and a more robust, lively prince, England never saw.” She used a linen square embroidered with blue forget-me-nots to blot her tears. Then, in a whisper so low that he almost did not hear her, she said, “God is where he was, Henry, and we are young enough.”
Henry raised tear-filled eyes to his queen. Theirs had been a dynastic marriage, vital to the fragile peace he had forged after seizing the crown from his cousin Richard at Bosworth Field. He was a scion of the House of Lancaster, the symbol of which was the red rose; she was the daughter of the House of York, the symbol of which was the white rose. He was descended from the third son of Edward the Third, but through an illegitimate line later made good; she was descended from the fourth son of Edward the Third. There being no law in England barring female succession, such as the Salic law in France, some believed Elizabeth Plantagenet’s claim to the throne was better than his own. He had promptly settled all that by marrying her when the war was over. Their children were the very embodiment of the peace that had reigned over the land since red rose had wed with white. The symbol of the new Tudor dynasty was the Tudor rose, a red rose with a white rose at its heart. A sycophantic gardener had even successfully bred a real red and white rose. But the symbolism was, for once, borne out in very truth; king and queen had grown to love each other over the years of their marriage.
“You are right,” he sighed on a ragged breath. But in his heart he was concerned for her. She was young still, yes, but she had already borne him six children, three of whom were now dead. “Go now,” he said. “You must rest. I will come to you.”
The days took on a surreal quality. The euphoria over Margaret’s betrothal to the King of Scotland was squelched by the death of her brother Arthur, and the court was plunged into mourning.
The death of the Prince of Wales, heir to the throne, had other ramifications. Prince Henry, as second son once destined for the church, was the new heir and Prince of Wales. As the Queen of Scotland his sister still took precedence, but as the new heir to the throne of England, barring any last minute announcement that the Dowager Princess of Wales was with child, Henry’s importance had increased immeasurably, and the focus was shifted from Margaret to him. This made Margaret deplore even more the delay in setting out for her new husband and kingdom.
The court knew a brief moment of gaiety in May when the queen announced that she was again with child. Her Grace seemed serene enough, but King Henry, who knew her well, could sense her apprehension. Perhaps she had taken his words too much to heart; perhaps he should have been content with Prince Henry. But it was the function of kings and queens to produce heirs, and it was useless to regret the queen’s condition. Children died every day, and young Henry was a reckless sort into the bargain. Another prince would be welcome, and might someday be a necessity.
Queen Elizabeth, wisely sensing the depressed state of the court, allowed minor celebrations in honor of her news. She even ordered some white and orange sarcenet sleeves to relieve the tedium of the stark black mourning Margaret and Mary had been wearing for their brother Arthur.
Life settled back into its pattern over the summer and into the fall. The anniversary of Margaret’s birthday in November was celebrated quietly. This she understood because of the continued mourning for Arthur, but she was dismayed to learn that her last Christmas at home was to be the most subdued in memory. She had been briefed as to the state of fiscal affairs in her adoptive kingdom of Scotland, and she knew that such celebrations there would not compare to Christmas at the English court. King Henry, who knew how to make tuppence do the work of a groat, always gave a lavish Christmas court. Margaret was disappointed, but forbore expressing her feelings out of respect for her mother’s condition.
The royal children spent little time with their parents as a rule; it simply was not the custom for the members of royal families to live under each other’s noses. Arthur, as heir, had been given his own establishment at an early age; the others had spent most of their time in the care of nurses, governors and governesses, and tutors in the royal nursery at Eltham. The king and queen made their unceasing rounds between Westminster, Windsor, Greenwich and Sheen, and later, after Richmond Palace had risen like a phoenix from the ashes of Sheen, they had spent a great deal of time there. The children were sent for on certain state occasions, and at their parents’ pleasure.
Even so, Elizabeth had sought her children out as often as her royal duties allowed, and spent money constantly from her own privy purse to fulfill not just their needs but their desires. Games and miniature weapons for Henry, and the clothes and accessories they loved for the girls, were a constant drain on her funds. Her children knew her as a kind and loving mother who always smiled at them and smelled sweetly and who shed a few tactful, royal tears whenever they were to be separated for long periods.
Now that Margaret was formally betrothed she was considered adult, and was to spend this last year entirely in her mother’s company. They went to mass together, ate together, and spent long hours talking of the past and of Margaret’s future. Margaret came to know her mother better than she ever had before, and to love her all the more, during these months. Elizabeth wished fervently that she had not been pregnant during this time, the last she might spend with her daughter for quite a while. But perhaps even that was for the best. The girl had been kept back a year from her husband for fear of getting her with child too soon. But she would be expected to produce an heir promptly once she arrived in Scotland. It was better for her to learn about these things from her mother.
One day as they sat together on the sunny window seat stitching an altar cloth, Margaret asked, “Were you and my lord father terribly disappointed because I was a girl?”
“Gracious, no,” smiled the Queen. “We had Arthur. And princesses are always…”
“Useful?” said Margaret.
“I was going to say, “welcome.”
Margaret’s eyes flashed. “Welcome, perhaps, because they are useful.”
The queen’s eyes searched her daughter’s. “Are you so bitter, then?”
“Not bitter,” Margaret replied. “I am just being practical. I understand the role that royal princesses play. More so now than ever. I am willing to fulfill my duty.” Her eyes strayed to Elizabeth’s now swollen belly.
“You must not be afraid,” said the Queen. “It is the lot of all women, high and low, to bear children.”
“I am not afraid,” said Margaret, whose outthrust chin reminded the Queen so much of her own mother at that moment that she almost laughed. “I do not want to disappoint Scotland by failing to produce a son.”
“You will have many sons, Margaret. Doubt it not. God knows what is best and will provide.”
Less than a month later, on a bleak winter’s day in early February, the Queen and her ladies made ready to retire to the Tower for her confinement. Lady Margaret Beaufort had decreed which ladies were to attend the queen, and had supervised every detail down to the thickness and number of candles, and the design of the wall hangings in the confinement chamber.
The night before the queen was to travel the short distance from the Palace of Westminster to the Tower, she summoned her family to her.
“Margaret,” she said.
“Yes, my lady,” Margaret replied with wide eyes. As the queen’s second eldest child, she could remember two other of the Queen’s confinements, those of Mary, and of Edmund, now dead. But she had not felt as closely linked to her mother at those times, nor had she had been facing shortly a similar ordeal.
“Margaret, it will be all right. You must trust me on this. Now, listen to me. Always obey your father the king. And after him, your brother, Henry. And remember; although you are their queen, you go to Scotland as an Englishwoman.”
“But does not Holy Writ say “Forsaking all others” and “A woman shall cleave”?”
Elizabeth closed weary eyes and stifled a smile. There was no need to worry about clever Margaret, then. She had a quick wit, and if only she could learn to curb her tongue and her wild impulses, she would make a fine queen. “Yes. But that is for ordinary people, not for queens. Remember England always.”
“I will, Mother,” Margaret replied gravely. But she could not get it out of her mind that her mother’s words sounded so final. It was as if she expected them never to talk again. “My Lady, are you well enough?”
“Of course,” blustered the queen. “There is one other thing.”
Margaret inclined her auburn head. “Yes, My Lady?”
“You have not always gotten on well with Henry. Oh, I know that childhood rivalries are normal. But if there is any real rift between you, you must settle it before you go away. You will need Henry someday, Margaret, more than you can realize or appreciate right now. He will be king for a long time.”
“I will make my peace with Henry, My Lady, on that you have my word.”
“That is as well, then. Now send Henry to me.” Margaret kissed her mother’s brow and tried not to let her see the fear in her own eyes, but when she stole a last look, she saw her own fears reflected there. “I will pray for you, My Lady.”
Elizabeth nodded, afraid to speak lest she betray her emotion.
A moment later the door creaked and there was her great, golden boy. “I see that Margaret takes precedence over me even in family matters,” said Henry gruffly. But the tender kiss he planted on his mother’s pale, outstretched hand told another story.
Queen Elizabeth looked into the cold blue eyes. Henry would make a good king. “My dear son, I am seeing you in order of your ages, and Margaret, whatever else she is, will always be your elder sister. She goes to a difficult situation in Scotland, Henry. You will be king someday, and must work with her for the good of this island. Do you understand?”
“Of course, My Lady. I will do my best.”
“I know you will,” she said. “There is another matter.”
Henry was silent, so she continued. “Mary is headstrong. Her future is uncertain. It may well be that you will have to settle things for her. Be kind to her, as far as you are able.”
“You are talking of Mary but your words speak of death,” said Henry. His eyes searched hers.
The queen looked him in the eye. “For women, death in childbed is always a possibility. Remember that when the Spanish princess needs for you to remember it.”
Henry sucked in his breath; so it was true. He knew that his father wanted desperately to keep Katharine’s dowry in England. The only way to do that was to marry her to the new Prince of Wales. But his brother’s wife…that needed thinking on. “Dear Lady,” said Henry, “may God and all the saints keep you. When next I see you I hope to also behold my new brother…or sister.”
Elizabeth almost laughed out loud at her son’s words. He wanted no competition. Henry kissed her hand again and when she opened her eyes next, Mary was standing before her. Her beautiful golden child. Elizabeth held out her arms to her young daughter in a way that Margaret and Henry’s royal reserve had not invited her to do. Those two were both too aware of their own dignity. Not so Mary…not yet. Mary sat on the bed and held her mother in her arms.
How frail she seems, thought Mary.
“Mary, dear child,” said the queen, her eyes shining. “Of all my children you remind me the most of my own dear mother. She was a great beauty, you know.” Mary’s hair was truly golden, without the red highlights of Margaret’s russet or Henry’s carrot top.
Mary had heard the stories of her maternal grandmother, Elizabeth Woodville; about how the stunning commoner had enchanted her handsome grandfather, King Edward IV. The woman had been anything but beloved, but by all the saints, she had been beautiful. Mary had inherited the astonishing good looks of both of them. Although it was not yet evident at her young age, Mary would get her striking height and charm of manner from her grandfather, her graceful demeanor from her grandmother, and the dazzling golden beauty that both had possessed in great measure. There was not much of the Tudors about Mary; she was pure Plantagenet.
“Mary,” said the queen. “You must obey your father in all things. But you are young, and Henry is young. It may be that someday there may be just the two of you left. You must always be guided by the king, my child, be he father or brother. Both will know what is best for you, and what is best for England.” Elizabeth was good at mincing words, at the subtle hint; but Mary was too young to conceive her insinuations, and too young as yet for Elizabeth to be too frank with her. God willing, she would be there to guide Mary for many years to come. But somehow she thought not, and of all the people she would leave behind, now or at some distant time, this child was her greatest concern. The queen had observed how Mary’s eyes followed Charles Brandon constantly, whether at the joust, at a banquet, or at a state occasion. She always found some excuse to seek him out, and to ask him a question. A spoiled, yes, admit it, spoiled, willful child, royal, privileged and indulged, and a commoner one step above a servant, was, or could be, a disastrous combination. Mary was too young to understand; perhaps she should discuss this matter not directly with her, but with Mother Beaufort. But that would be a betrayal of Mary, whom after all, she only suspected…
“Lady, are you listening to me?” asked Mary. She had snuggled up to her mother and was lifting strands of her honey-colored hair, winding them around her finger, and then letting the thick spring thus made uncoil of its own accord.
